SWYFLOYBFWN
by bisexualcharliedavis
Summary: Sleeping with your fathers lover on your best friends wedding night. What an acronym. (Charlie/Munro, one sided Charlie/Blake, mentioned Blake/Jean, past Munro/Charlie's dad)


_/im sure some of you have heard about this fic before, its undergone a lot of changes. Not sure im one hundred percent happy with it but I still like it. It's a munro/charlie fic because I love those age difference pairings. One sided charlie/blake Warnings for discussions of sexual intercourse and Munro taking advantage of Charlie being in a shit place and just generally being a a dickhead. Leave a review If you liked it!_

I suppose this makes me a bad person.

I suppose I was already a bad person.

But really, before you judge me, look at this from my perspective.

The only man I've ever loved died twenty years ago and one can only buy so many prostitutes before you realize that it's not the same.

Now picture this.

The son of the only man you've ever loved, who looks just like your dead lover is half way through drinking himself stupid at a bar.

Do you blame me?

I wouldn't

He's so beautiful, lying in bed with me. All white skin and long limbs. He was disappointed when I wouldn't hold him, and rolled away. Why should I hold him? He did nothing when we were in the thick of it. If he wanted me to hold him then he would have to earn it, I decided, pushing him off of me and rolling away. I was disappointed when his father wouldn't hold me so I suppose we are equal now. Equal in misery. Heaven knows I'm miserable now.

The only thing, other then him, that I ever loved was working. I loved working with all my heart. I worked non stop for forty years. And what happened? I lost my job. Sure, there's the pension but it's not work. It's money. I never cared about the money. I wanted to e the best, that photograph was supposed to be my guarantee, it was meant to be my all or nothing when I finally reached the rank I wanted. Now it's nothing.

I studied his back. Perfect and smooth, dotted with moles and freckles. He blends into my sheets. Haunting me, like the ghost of him that refused to let me be. He used to be small, hidden away under sheets and in the cries of other lovers, but now, without the distraction he is everywhere. I find myself repeating the steps of grief I sped through twenty five years ago. I hear him say my name in crowds and when I look at my scar I am convinced that his name is there among the colour of the skin, the ridges of scar tissue, in the sutures they used to put me back together, I see him when I wake up, I see him when I dream. He is everywhere, and yet also nowhere. Keeping me sane, driving me mad, existing in a perfect paradox.

For just one second, in Charlie's face, I see him. Picture perfect. Those light eyelashes, the curve of his jaw, the residual baby fat, he is there, someplace. But then he is gone as soon as he came, and I am alone here again. It is always like this. I wake up to the gentle 'William, William. ' only to realize there is no one calling my name. I smell coffee, only to remember I never drink it. I hear the news, only to realize I don't listen to it. He follows me, wherever I may go.

And yet it's the ghost of him that keeps me company. The ghost of him that didn't judge me for getting blind drunk three nights running, then sober up, for the purpose of buying more alcohol. The ghost of him that refused to participate in my own slow destruction of all I had left.

There is no use in trying to sleep now, I am awake. I turn my gaze over to him, and remember the ghostly taste of his father on his lips, the pain in his eyes when I called out his father's name, the feeling of nails on my back, so alike the feeling that I am sure he once felt from me. The regret I don't feel. I enjoyed last night, at least, most of it. I assume he did as well. The fog of grief has moved, the enormity of the weight that had lifted. But I want get up, in case he wants to have a heart to heart when he finally wakes up from his alcohol induced doze. I'm not a warm person, and I have no desire to engage him as something other then casual sex. Why would I? His face is wasted with that personality. As interesting as wet cardboard, or watching paint dry. I hate his words and his friend and the way he thinks but his body is too beautiful to turn down. After all, why would I want to talk to the person who got me fired in the first place. He looks like someone who forms attachments.

In fact I know he is. I think of the suit he was wearing, the flower in his button hole. His brothers are too young to marry so it must have been his doctor. It was obvious that the boy was in love with him. Real shame, if you ask me. Blake no idea what he's missing out on, I think. I suppose he married his house keeper. Never liked her much myself. I wonder if Blake ever indulged him. I suppose he didn't. Bake is too nice to string him along, I should think. He would have been ore practiced, more versed, if Blake indulged him.

Suddenly, I'm very amused. Imagine that. Sleeping with your father's lover on your best friends wedding night. Maybe it's some kind of homosexual coping mechanism. SW.Y.F.L.O.Y.B.F.W.N. Hell of an acronym. I decide the best thing for me to do would be to shower, and yet I don't, because that would be too much like washing the last of him down the drain.

I stroke a finger slowly down his back, watch the goosebumps raise after it passed by. I watched him shiver and breath slightly faster in his sleep. Perhaps I was taking advantage of him. After all. No one agrees to sleep with someone they helped kick out a job unless they're feeling pretty shitty. I know exactly how he feels. It was just how I felt when he married Charlie's mother. But unlike Blake, he was willing to keep seeing me behind her back, even when Charlie was born. I wonder what he would think of knowing this. I suppose I shouldn't think it. I also suppose I don't care. He left me here, alone, I can have his son. It's a fair trade off, I think.

I think about last night again, about the little gasps he made, about his fingers scrabbling for purchase on my back, me, biting all the way down his collar bone and onto his chest, like a frenzied dog. I smile, and wish I could see them. They must be beautiful. Wine stains on skin. bruises that don't wash out, I want to inflict a million of them on him so he can never go a day without thinking of me. I think I am owed that much.

Why would I not take advantage of a situation that presented itself to me? I had no reason to tell him no when he was already in my lap. He was not particularly skilled, he wasn't used to feeling drunk, kisses sloppy, hands not sure what to do. I did most of the work I am fairly certain. I carried him from the living room to here, pretending to be amused by his little kisses and playing with my shirt collar. It's childs play to me, unimportant. He enjoyed it and he was too drunk for me to tell him differently. He might have turned me away if I pressed him too hard at first.

But then I took what I really wanted. He makes all the same noises his father made. A real carbon copy. It was so good, nearly as good as having the real thing. But not quite. He even smells the same, I marveled, taking the atmosphere. I want to let him lie here forever. But I am not that kind. While he seems like his father in the heat of the moment, I know he won't be when he wakes.

I push at him with one hand until he returns to the world of the living probably with a terrible headache. I haven't got time or the desire to coddle him through this breakdown. And boy will it be a breakdown. He will probably confess all to Blake in one of those teary eyed late night conversations I know they love. It's fascinating to me. And he'll swear it won't happen again. Until it does.

Next thing I know, He is starring at me with those blue eyes, the bluest anyone has ever seen. He is so beautiful on the verge of tears. Next time (and there will be a next time) I will drag it out until he is crying with pleasure. Like his father used to do to me, I think, watching, amused as he struggles to pull on his clothes and get the fuck out of my house. He doesn't speak to me, but shame is written all over his chest with my wine stain bruises. He doesn't say goodbye. I'm pleased to have something to do.

I lie back down on the bed when he is gone, and I think about how I am looking forward to the next time, because next time he will call. I knew when he was feeling down, I'd be there.


End file.
